Dream Diviner
by Skyskater
Summary: Every night, the easel is full of paper. Every night, the paint cans are full. And every night, he paints their memories.


**Happy fiction...if you can call it that. No character death or anything.**

**Done at home.**

**If you can guess who this Naruto character is 2nd arc I think should be pretty obvious you get...er...a French Fry!**

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**Feelings buffet him from all around. Hurt, happiness, despair, delight. He doesn't know who the individual feelings belong to, and he doesn't really care. He will spin tales for all of them tonight, anyway.

He sits down in front of his easel. A blank piece of white paper is already waiting; all that remains to do is the pouring of the paint into his palette. Red, blue, green, orange. They fill his tray, and he is ready to paint. What emotion will he start with tonight? Happiness, he decides. The dreams of happiness are always the easiest.

One feeling of happiness he singles out from the rest. He is painting for a little girl who had received a puppy that day. He smiles at the childish memory, dips his brush into a wonderful sky blue, and starts to paint.

The dream takes shape right before his eyes. The little girl and her puppy frolic together in a grassy meadow while the puffy white clouds sail by overhead in the clear blue sky. He loves to create dreams for people.

He tears the page from his easel, sets it down on a table next to him, and folds it into a paper airplane. Standing up, he walks to the window and opens it. The warm summer night air greets him. He flings the paper airplane out the window, watching as it grows smaller and smaller as it gets farther and farther away. It will reach its destination, pulled forward by the fresh memories of the day. Somewhere in the world, a little girl will have a good dream tonight.

He turns back to his easel, where another fresh piece of "dream paper" awaits him. He pauses for a moment, closing his eyes, letting all the different memories soak into him. A tragic day catches his heart and holds it there. He watches through the eyes of this teenage boy who is helpless and can only watch as his parents heatedly argue. He can feel his own heart tear in two when the father angrily storms out the door, leaving the mother to sink onto the white carpet and cry.

Dark eyes open, he sees his own tears mixing with some dark purple paint. Tonight, he will give this boy a happy dream; a dream of a perfect family. He hates seeing tragedy, and if he can remove the pain for even a few hours, he will do so.

The tip of the brush sinks into an apple green color and he starts to paint. Before long, a family in farm clothes is standing in front of their farm, laughing and pointing as a German shepherd chases the very confused chickens around. He smiles, his tears drying, his breathing evens out so that it no longer catches in his chest.

Paper flies out the window, dragged forward by the intense memories, pushed forward with his strong will. He will make sure that teenage boy has a good dream tonight, and that he will wake up the next morning, refreshed, ready to take on whatever the cold world throws at him. And even if his painted stories only are there for a few hours, he hopes he will leave a lasting impression.

The rest of the night it is the same routine: paint and rip, paint and rip. He does not take breaks, does not stop for food or drink or sleep. The only times he stops are when he needs to wash his brush and put more paint in his palette. The paper airplanes fly thick and fast out his window, each zooming toward its own unique finish line. He paints happy dreams, sad dreams, fantasy dreams, and even nightmares. They all fly to their owners; They never make a mistake. And always, there is a fresh sheet of pure paper waiting for his brush on the easel.

Grey skies finally look in on him. His work is almost done for the night, and soon he will be able to rest, as the day is almost here. The paper on his easel is running low, the canisters of paint are almost empty, and the last few memories he already has ideas for.

As he paints these last memories, he starts to yawn. He is tired, and his hand is cramped, his fingers full of papercuts from the many folded dreams. Soon he will be able to rest, he tells himself. Soon.

The last dreams sail out the window. He washes off his brush, scrubs his palette until it is pure ivory white again. He looks at his workplace. The paint canisters are empty, the easel out of paper. He knows they will be refilled again though, with the events of the day and the emotions of the day. He also knows that when he returns tonight, there will be the same feelings and he will have to think of new ideas for the dreams, for no two can be alike.

The door opens for him, and he walks out tiredly. Already, the evidence of his dreams are fading from his hands. Another door opens at his touch, he staggers in, collapsing on a clean white bed.

A few hours later, the city is up and buzzing about the wonderful dreams they had last night. None of the chaos reaches him, though. He is in a world all his own, reliving the events of the previous day as his painted dreams come circulating back to him, returning to their creator. He has painted all these dreams, and now they return with gratitude to give him entertainment during his daytime nap. For he is the Dream Diviner, and all dreams belong to him.

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**Hope you liked it! Based off the question: Where do dreams come from?**

**Thanks for reading, please review!**


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